Conversations With a Thirteen Year Old
by fowl68
Summary: Being a teenager sucks. Period.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything. The song is Conversations with My 13 Year Old Self by Pink.

**Author's Note:** Had an awesome few days at Disney and Aquatica with my cousins that came down from Texas. I lost my glasses at Aquatica though, but it was time to get new ones anyway.

I just finished reading the new Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter novel, _Hitlist_, which if any of you read them, this one is definitely a return to the good ones before Laurell K Hamilton had her like six books that were all romance novels.

If you haven't read that series, I fully recommend it. A warning first though, it gets pretty gory in some parts and there are adult things in there.

-/-/-

_How strange that the young should always think the world is against them - when in fact that is the only time it is for them. ~Mignon McLaughlin, **The Neurotic's Notebook,** 1960_

-/-/-/-

_Conversations with my 13 year old self  
>Conversations with my 13 year old self<em>

_You're angry  
>I know this<br>The world couldn't care less_

She bites her lip through it all so she doesn't snap out in rage against the elders. Her fingernails, short with dirt underneath them from helping Mama in the gardens, are digging into her palms painfully. How could they be speaking about things like that when her parents had just died? When she and Mithos were being left orphans?

At the thought, Martel glances across the room to where Mithos has been sitting stiffly in a chair since the elders had come through the door to speak to them about what was going to happen to their parents' house. There had been words of sympathy, but Martel wasn't as stupid as the elders believed children were. At the very least, she knew the difference between real and fake and their sympathy had been very much faked.

She sits down beside her brother, who looks up quickly at her. He's a tiny thing, all of six years old. His hair was getting long, Martel thinks as she runs her fingers through it. His hair had always been nicer than hers, less tangled and softer.

"What's gonna happen now?" Mithos' voice is quiet and hoarse from the crying that she knows he's been doing at night, even if he won't admit to it. He has a lot of elven pride, or so their parents had always called it. Mama said that Papa had a lot of it.

"I don't know, Mithos." She wants to be able to say anything but that, but she can't because she's never lied to Mithos before.

She shouldn't have to be answering these questions, just like Mithos shouldn't have to be asking them because their parents should be here and alive and making supper.

But they aren't and Martel just stares at the kitchen because she doesn't know the first thing about making supper.

_You're lonely  
>I feel this<br>And you wish you were the best  
>No teachers<br>Or guidance  
>And you always walk alone<em>

Martel's hands are burnt from the stove and there are nicks on her fingers from where her hands slipped when she was trying to cut fruit. Laundry is no longer a chore, but a balm for her aching hands because it's something she knows how to do.

Mithos tries to help, but he's small and he can't help when neither of them knows what to do. Martel has seen him stare at her hands and she's smiled it away and said that it was nothing and what would he like for dinner today? They both ignore the gaping emptiness in the world where their parents used to be.

The first few days, Martel had gone to the next house, had asked Laila's mother for help, but Laila—full-blooded elven with hair like honey and wide, almond-shaped eyes and ears that tapered to an elegant point, unlike Martel's triangular ones—had opened the door, she'd glanced inside and muttered, "Mother said that I'm not allowed to speak with you anymore.

That day, Martel lost her best friend in Heimdall. After that, she had to walk from the schoolhouse with Mithos in one hand and with only him to talk to. Not that she minds being with Mithos, but they're never apart now. She misses being around people her own age. And she's seen the way that the other kids in the schoolhouse treat Mithos, looking at him sideways where before they used to play ball with him, their laughter loud in the afternoon.

They're all each other has now and it's not enough.

_You're crying  
>At night when<br>Nobody else is home_

_Come over here and let me hold your hand and hug you, darling  
>I promise you that it won't always feel this bad<em>

_There are so many things I want to say to you  
>You're the girl I used to be<br>You little heartbroken 13 year old me_

"It hurts, doesn't it?"

Martel's head shoots up because she hadn't heard anyone coming. There's a woman there, lovely and graceful. Her hair is darker than Martel's, but only by a little and it's tied back in a braid. Her eyes were the same color as Martel's and, when Martel peeks, she can see the triangular edge to her ears. Another half-elf. Something about her was…faded…around the edges, like she was a photograph in an old book. Martel has never seen this woman in town and Heimdall almost never has outsiders.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Martel says, wiping her eyes hastily with the back of her hand. Mithos is asleep inside the house and she is sitting on the porch, listening to the outside because it's the one thing that hasn't changed.

"No?" Her voice is gently musical, an elven quality that Martel hasn't been lucky to get—though she remembers Laila saying once that you got it when you got older. "I see. Would you like to walk with me awhile? I haven't been here in a very long time and I seem to have forgotten my way around."

Martel stands warily, following the woman. "How long has it been? Since you were last here, I mean."

"A good eleven years, I believe. I think I was about your age then. How old _are_ you, by the way?"

"Thirteen."

"A good age."

Martel snorts. "Not to me."

"An age full of mixed blessings, at the very least." Martel has to hesitate before agreeing. Not all of it was bad. Not completely. "When I was thirteen, I had to take care of my little brother."

"Really? Me too!"

The woman smiles and it reminds Martel of Mama, but the woman doesn't look very much like Mama except for the way the corners of her eyes curve up with her smile. "He can be a little bit of a brat, can't he?"

Martel finds herself smiling, just a little, for the first time in the month and a half since her parents died. "Sometimes."

"Brothers can be like that. But you're lucky to have him."

"I know…but sometimes," Martel almost stops herself from saying it because she doesn't know this woman and because she loves Mithos, but sometimes… "I think I'm not so lucky."

"That's normal, believe me. Do you two fight a lot?" Martel shakes her head. She can't remember them ever having a fight much bigger than who got the last slice of peach. "That's good. What happened to your hands?"

"I burned 'em on the stove." Martel mumbles, shifting a little. This woman probably knew how to cook and use a stove. "'M not a very good cook."

"It's a learning process." The woman says as they cross a bridge. "My husband…he's always teasing me about my cooking."

"You're married?"

"Yes, two years ago." The woman glanced up, as though someone only she could hear was calling her. "Looks like it's time for me to go."

"Do-Do you have to?" Martel finds herself blurting out. The woman wasn't anywhere near her age, but she was nice to talk to.

The woman's eyes were sad. "Unfortunately. But, before I go," The woman crossed the short distance between them and embraced her tightly. "Undine bless, my darling."

_-/-/-/-_

_You're laughing  
>But you're hiding<br>God I know that trick too well  
>You forget<br>That I've been you  
>And now I'm just the shell<em>

"…How's life?"

"Dandy." No one's caught the sarcasm in her voice yet.

Sheena smiles when people ask her how she is. Not that many people ask her that these days. Sheena goes between Meltokio and Mizuho mostly and she's still largely unknown in Meltokio and in Mizuho…well. They hadn't forgiven her yet.

"You're lying."

Sheena stares at the woman. No one had ever called her on her lies before. No one. Not even Kuchinawa or Orochi, who'd known her all her life.

The woman looks a bit like her, she supposes. Black hair pulled up in a messy ponytail with clear brown eyes. She was curvy too, in a way that looked elegant. Sheena had some curves, but they only looked awkward on her otherwise bony frame. She was leaning against the railing, looking utterly at ease with herself.

"And how would you know that?"

The woman shrugs and Sheena notices for the first time that the woman wavers a little around the edges, kind of like the heat waves that she saw outside sometimes. "Call it instinct. So, again, how's life?"

"Not great."

"I know the feeling?"

"Yeah? How?

"Being a teenager sucks. Period."

Sheena chuckles despite herself. "Don't need to tell me twice."

"…You're from Mizuho, aren't you?" Sheena glances up at the woman. "I've met others from there. You look like them."

"I don't think so. They're…they've got something different. I'm not from Mizuho, y'know. I was just raised there."

"I had that problem."

"You?"

"Not the same one, obviously. Mizuho's a secret village. But I was adopted too. I don't remember my parents."

"Did your adopted family hate you?"

"Yeah, they did, actually. For something that wasn't my fault, though I thought it was for a long time." The woman's hands play with a small bell that's tied around her wrist.

"What's that?" Sheena asks, tilting her head to indicate the bell.

"A gift from a friend."

Sheena snorts a little. "At least you have a friend."

The woman smiles a little as she looks around Meltokio, but it looks sad and bittersweet. "I'm sure you'll find one soon. This town can surprise you."

_I promise  
>I love you and<br>Everything will work out fine  
>Don't try to<br>Grow up yet  
>Oh just give it some time<em>

"Must be nice to be grown up." Sheena says.

"You think so?"

"Of course! You can go anywhere and you don't have to listen to anyone."

"Someday, you might not mind staying in one place so much."  
>"Do you not like travelling?" Sheena asks.<p>

"Oh, yeah. I love it. Sometimes though, it's nice to just spend a few days at home, resting."

"That's what it feels like I'm constantly doing here." Sheena mutters. There was no one to spar with and the researchers at the Academy weren't unfriendly really, just focused in their work and no one really had time to talk to her. "I think I've gone through every book in the Academy."

"Did you check the library?"

"I don't even know where that _is_. This city's huge!"

The woman stands on her toes a little, looking over the rail. Sheena mimics her. "See that road down there?" The woman asks, pointing. "Follow that all the way down and take a left. It's not a library, but it's a nice old bookstore. They've got some interesting stuff." The woman pauses, as though wondering whether she should say her next thought. "…I met my best friend there. Well, the person who would become my best friend. I hated him at first."

Sheena laughs at the petulant way the woman's nose wrinkles at the thought of her best friend, whoever he was. She wanted that, wanted to be able to have that kind of relationship where teasing and smiling and remembering was easy and familiar.

"Think that could happen for me?" Sheena asks.

The woman grins at her. "Worth a shot, isn't it?"

__

_The pain you feel is real you're not asleep but it's a nightmare  
>But you can wake up anytime<br>Oh don't lose your passion or the fighter that's inside of you  
>You're the girl I used to be<br>The pissed off complicated 13 year old me_

Sheena walks with the woman to the bookstore. The woman is right—it is a nice bookstore. The kind that showed up only in old films, the bindings dusty and the pages worn. The bookstore smells of sandalwood and incense and the owner has a small record player that he plays obscure music on.

There's only one other person in the bookstore, a redheaded kid that stays towards the back, thumbing through books. He glances up as they enter and Sheena notices that he has the palest blue eyes she's ever seen before he smiles at her. It's hesitatingly confident, that strange line between boy and man where he was still getting used to having an effect on the opposite sex. He closes the book in his hands, a finger still inside the pages to keep his place, and walks up to her.

"Hey, hunny." He says, smiling.

Sheena glances around for the woman, but she's gone and his words only just begin to register. "I'm not your hunny." She snaps. He looks surprised before a brilliant smile unfolds on his face.

"Clearly." He keeps talking to her, easy conversation that Sheena feels like she doesn't have to participate in, but somehow, she finds herself compelled to answer and retaliate and his smile doesn't get any smaller.

__

_Conversations with my 13 year old self  
>Conversations with my 13 year old self<em>

_Until we meet again  
>Oh I wish you well oh<br>I wish you well  
>Little girl<br>Until we meet again  
>Oh<br>I wish you well  
>Little girl<em>

The woman watches the two interact as she feels herself fading away. The scene is dusty and familiar and it's like watching a home video. You knew the people, you knew the place, and you, more or less, remembered what happened, but seeing it here, in front of you, was something entirely different.

She smiles and bids the girl farewell. She'll be fine, the woman knows. That boy was a surprisingly good influence.

_I wish you well  
>Until we meet again<br>My little 13 year old me_


End file.
